Aminadab 0803213131

by Unknown

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  at every opportunity they addressed people they knew, people for whom these signs of attention were terribly aggravating. Conversations from one table to another seemed to be forbidden, which was perfectly reasonable since the bad acoustics would have created an unbearable racket. Despite his desire to respect the customs, Thomas was glad to speak to his new neighbors. He only wanted to say a couple of words to them. "Who are you exactly?" he said in a quiet voice, but the echo immedi ately took hold of his question, and it was as if he had shouted it with all his might. Everyone turned to look at him; it was very unpleasant, but now it was too late -he could no longer take back his words. A response came, and it was no less jarring. "Your former guide," said the older of the two. Was it really he? Indeed, from his imperious demeanor Thomas should have recognized the man who had led him through the crowd; now there was not the least trace of irony on his face, but his manner was all the more unpleasant. The other was the player who had spoken to him when he had first entered the room. "Do you know them?" asked Thomas, turning to Jerome. "I saw them both in the grand hall." He waited for an answer, but the young man went no further than to say with a certain coldness that he never went to the gaming room. "Never," said Thomas, with a look of surprise. "Do you mean that you don't like the games?" "I adore the games," said the young man. "It is certainly not because I have no taste for it that I have left that room behind." "Perhaps it's the noise that drives you away," said Thomas. "Indeed, the noise is unbearable. We have asked more than once that measures be taken to make the room less resonant; our requests have not been granted. It seems that the players cannot do without the noise, that it helps them overcome the emotions to which they would succumb entirely without some distraction." "How superstitious these people are!" said Thomas. "For you that is no doubt yet another reason to stay away?" Before answering, the young man looked around the room, letting his eyes wander from one person to another in search of some solid point they could rest on. He looked slowly and solemnly, as if everything threatened to disappear and as if he were afraid of no longer finding this scene still there after giving his response.

  "One must always tell the truth," he declared. "You are questioning me because you were shocked by the customs that have been established in the house, and you wish to hear from my mouth the truth that you believe you have already come to know. I cannot hold it against you; it's quite natu ral that our conversation has not yet penetrated your mind and that most of the facts I have shared with you seem without interest. How could it be otherwise? Are you not a stranger to this place? Are you not so distant that at times I can hardly believe you are present and must say to myself: 'He is there,' so that I can continue my story? It would be very unusual and even illegal for you to be interested in my conversation, but it is not necessary for you to be interested in it; there is hardly any need for you to listen to it at all; it is enough that I say what is useful for you to be able to profit from it. And yet, since through certain circumstances you may become mixed up in our relations with the domestics, I have a duty to enlighten you. Of course, I am not speaking of our real relations, these pass at an infinite distance above your head; you may try your best to look upward, but you will not even glimpse what we have in mind when we describe them. The important thing for you, what you cannot in any way afford to neglect, are the practical relations with the staff. You may be called on at any moment to give your opinion, and you must not let your ignorance this ignorance for which you congratulate yourself so heartily-lead you to commit any errors. What, therefore, should you know about the domes tics? They have their good qualities, that is undeniable; they are devoted and capable, and they are so proud that the slightest reproach makes them ill . It is all the more touching, then, to see them neglect their work when concerns of a higher order demand this negligence. No one suffers more than they do from the disorder, and yet everything here, as you yourself have noticed, is pure incoherence and waste. For them this is a terrible dis tress. It is almost tempting to close one's eyes to the imperfections of the service, because while the tenants find it extremely inconvenient, for the domestics it is a perpetual torment. How can we punish them for some thing that in their eyes is already such a terrible punishment? Neverthe less, this point of view is not enough to justify their behavior. Are they not domestics above all else? Is it not their duty, their primary duty, to fulfill to the letter the obligations of the service- without thinking of anything else and without wishing to rise above their functions? Is it up to them to interpret the desires of the tenants? Do they not already commit an error 97

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  when they reflect and meditate on the orders they have been given and when they try to discern whether these orders correspond to the true well being of their clients? But - so they answer-we are not only in the service of the tenants, we are also in the service of the house. No doubt; but even that is not always admitted. The tenants make up an integral part of the building, and from the moment they have entered and begin to live here, from the moment they respect the laws, one cannot neglect them with out at the same time neglecting the house. Otherwise, if they did not have the real and effective feeling of participating in the entire building, how would they know they are really there, how could they not let themselves be carried away by the desperate thought that they are still outside? One might even say-though this is a risky proposition -that the tenants are more important than the house itself, or at least that they are the house, that the house has no reality except through them, that if there were no tenants, there would not even be a building, and that if they all went away, this would be enough for the rooms, the walls, and even the foundations to disappear completely. These are bold and daring thoughts, and they are largely false; it is the same with them as it is with those explanations often passed on to newcomers when they are told: The house is the staff; the house is the rules. As though one could stuff such vast and undefinable truths into a definition! What it is useful to remember about these debates is that no one can bring the house over to their side or use it as an argu ment in a dispute. Whenever one introduces it, it blasts everything apart. The domestics themselves say this in their own defense when someone ac cuses them of not keeping up the building and of damaging its reputation. 'The house is not well kept?' they ask. 'How can that be possible? We are not powerful men; we are merely modest servants, and you well know that even with all the power in the world we would not succeed in lessening the value of the building, no more in any case than we could increase it. No, the house is always at every moment in the state that perfectly suits it. It is essentially out of reach. We serve it as it demands to be served.' There is some truth in this line of thought, and yet the servants are wrong. For they too belong to the house; they are its main gears; they are thus to a certain extent everything it is, and if, through their irregularities or their negligence, they cannot really harm it or shake its foundations, they are responsible for the bad thoughts that distort the judgment of the tenants. Good God, no, they cannot reach it. Who ever could? But if it remains

  untouchable and indifferent, if it does not feel the effects of their faults, they are nonetheless at fault in relation to it, and all the more so in that it does not move and does not risk crumbling down on them and so only judges them with its impassive and utter contempt. It has therefore seemed necessary, because of the harm they may do, to exercise control over the domestics and to submit them to a strict jurisdiction. This is what we call 'attracting them to us.' But then, in the name of what can they be judged? A first difficulty is that they do not think of themselves as responsible to us. On the one hand, they see the tenants as nothing but a parasitic caste who - because they do not live as intimately with the furnishings, the im plements and utensils, the obscure corners of the house -have not been initiated into its secrets and can even be considered as still belonging to the outside; such people would in any case have no ground
s for judging those who are superior to them. On the other hand, they claim that their activity is determined by rules known only to them, and they add that if one day a judgment were necessary, this judgment would emanate sponta neously from these rules or, if need be, would be pronounced by way of a tribunal established by them. The confusion of powers is obvious. And yet, it is indeed true that in some ways we find their presence disarming, for among their obligations - and this proves the importance of their role they have been given, as one of their most sacred duties, guardianship of the rules. Theycannot release the register that contains them without com mitting an unheard-of error. They cannot admit therefore that a few pages ought to be entrusted to us, even if our judgment should end up purify ing them and relieving the remorse that consumes them. They prefer to be tormented by their errors than to be cleansed of them by a new crime; and who can blame them? Besides, we could never be tempted to lay our hands on these rules and enforce them, for we do not know what they are. No," he continued, looking at Thomas with a provocative air, "we do not know what they are. Of course we do not know the ones that concern us. There is no need even to say that. Otherwise, would we respect them, would we have for them that veneration without which the rules are scorned even as they are observed? What would the law be if our only duty toward it were to conform our behavior to it? As though one were able not to follow the law, as though one could cause it to break down. An absurd, ridiculous thought. May it not come to cloud our minds." He stopped to take a deep breath and to expel the bad air that such 99

  words had drawn into him; then he continued with greater calm: "How then do the employees behave, these employees who not only have guard ianship over our rules but who are not even ignorant of the precepts per taining to themselves? It is a situation that makes one tremble. If one dared to speak lightly, one might say that it is from such an anomaly as this that all our misfortunes, and theirs, proceed. It is unheard-of that men would have the ability every day to look at the book and to read in it what they ought to do, what they ought not do, why they ought to do it, and what texts they are violating if they do not. Is this possible? The employees themselves deny it. They claim that the book itself has never been opened, that they keep it before them without ever looking in it, that in any case if they had ever looked through its pages, they could never have deciphered it. We believe them; we are glad to believe them. Understand the text of the law? And why not write the law itself, falsify it or modify it? Those who say that the law does not exist commit an infinitely less serious crime than those who play around with such thoughts as these. It is always possible to declare that there are no rules, and this is probably true; the more one thinks that the rules are distant, that they escape our experience and our language, that they are inaccessible, the less one risks overstepping them. And this is equally true of every person who is in charge of the rules. Do you under stand," he added, looking once more at Thomas, "why we say that the staff is invisible?" Thomas avoided giving any response; he only nodded his head gravely. But the young man took no notice of this reticence. "Should we then renounce judging the domestics?" he asked everyone there. "Will we be exposed to their caprice and to their depraved imagina tions? And this because the domestics have in their possession the material documents and the texts on which every judgment is based and perhaps even the judgments themselves, and because, on top of that, they refuse to heed our summons? We can do without all that. Naturally, in a certain sense, we will never really be able to judge an employee, even the most in significant among them. But we do not wish to do so. We are even happy not to have the means. Carrying out such a task would require that we in dulge in a simulacrum of justice, and the very thought is repugnant to us. Dispense justice to a domestic? What an idea! We can detest them on the whole as much as we want; we can pursue them out of anger for all the harm they do, or out of envy for all the benefits they enjoy; we are nonethe100

  less all too aware of how much we owe them not to leave them in peace in matters of justice. Where would that take us? Most of the time, as you have seen, the employees seem to be outright criminals. Of course they have all sorts of little defects that make them very unpleasant; they meddle in everything; they have no idea what work is; they love to play jokes - and what jokes! They're also thieves and gluttons; in that regard, I'm surprised that the servant didn't drink your coffee, it's almost the rule; all these de fects certainly make of them something other than model servants, but since they also have all those good little qualities that correct such imper fections, we pay no attention to them, and in the long run we forget their trifling errors." "What good qualities are those?" said Thomas sharply. "They are qualities of considerable value," answered the young man, with an angry look, either because he was annoyed that Thomas had inter rupted him, or because he considered this too insignificant to apply his mind to it. ''I'll give you one example: they are terribly indiscreet, but in their indiscretion, they know how to forget, so that if we grumble at them because they are always looking over our shoulder, we are also grateful to them for seeming not to be there at all and for never saying what they think, and in the end we feel happy about this almost invisible presence that comforts us, that warms us and helps us, at the price of disturbances that are overall quite minimal." "But," said Thomas, "there is nothing pleasant in the jokes they play." "No doubt about that," said the young man. "They are generally exasper ating, and I can understand why the loud knocking at the door made you angry a moment ago." "Was that for my sake?" asked Thomas. "Naturally," said the young man, with a smile. "Whom else would it be for? But, you see, you yourself had knocked in a way that was so solemn, so important, as if your entry ought to be taken for some sensational event, that they might well make a little fun of you. Besides, it's always like that. Their jokes are ridiculous, but we often behave in such ridiculous ways; we attach importance to too many things; how could one not be tempted to laugh at it?" "Do you approve of everything they do?" asked Thomas. "Of course not," said the young man. "What a strange creature you are! I am often reproached for being too harsh with them. My God," he added,

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  with a kind of horror, "if you are already so worked up over such trifles, what will your reaction be to the other misdeeds they sometimes commit? Shall I tell you what they are?" "That's up to you to decide," Thomas answered, "but perhaps you think that I'm more ignorant than I am; perhaps I know a little something about it already." "What childishness!" said the young man, with impatience. "How could you know about it? Do we ourselves know everything? Have you heard about what goes on in the bedrooms, or what happens up above with the sick?" « I know nothing, that's understood," said Thomas. « But I do know that -to put it bluntly - the domestics can be accused of murder." « That's a manner of speaking," replied the young man. (re you referring to the measures they take to get rid of certain tenants by making their stay particularly uncomfortable, by transforming their beds into little infernal machines? That isn't so serious; it's rather a bad joke. One need only take a few precautions. To avoid these difficulties we have given up going to bed, and in many rooms the beds have been removed at the request of the ten ants. This is no doubt precisely what the domestics wanted, since they hate making the beds; generally, in the midst of their work, they are overcome with dizziness and are forced to lie down on the mattress where an excru ciating sleepiness overcomes them, for they claim that they never sleep. None of this is very serious. If we had nothing else to reproach them with, we would never even give them a second thought. But there are count less other things they do that are much more reprehensible. And to tell the truth it is not, properly speaking, a question of actions, although some of them are truly nasty; it is rather a way of being, a general conduct that we sense is driven by dishonorable motives. When they enter our rooms elsewhere they are not so bold - they merely stare at us with sly, suspi cious looks, as though they know what we're thinking, and what looks! Or rather, no, that's not it; they don't look at us; t
hey're incapable of looking at us; they circle around us with eyes that look at nothing in particular, that watch over us and inspect us there where we are not to be found. What are they looking for? What do they think they see? To all appearances their in quiries are legitimate; they take care not to leave us alone with thoughts that, out of negligence or timidity, we would hesitate to express; they want to anticipate our desires; they put themselves as much as possible in our 102

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  place. This is an explicit part of their obligations. But, as you will have guessed, it is not their duties that they have in mind. They couldn't care less about preventing us from doing evil. On the contrary, with their looks ofvague suspicion, they are thinking only of how to convince us of the evil we have done or of how to impart to us the idea of having done it. Nothing, alas, could be easier. Not only do they have tremendous authority- and despite the general contempt they have been unable to avoid, they enjoy a situation of the first order - they also know everything about us. They have gigantic catalogues in which the slightest details of our existence are re corded, everything there is to know about our tastes, our habits, our rela tions, and even - the very thought sends a shiver - our past before coming into the house. This is their favorite work. Gathering information under the pretext of dispensing it, interrogating us with a servile air about what we are lacking in order to know what we desire, catching us in intimate moments because the service has to be impeccable - in all this, believe me, they spare no trouble. Perhaps they know more, perhaps less than we think. It hardly matters. We are overwhelmed by such a belief. We cannot stop ourselves from believing that they are aware of our most vague and fleeting impressions. They know us better than we know ourselves: that is our unshakable conviction. So they have an easy time of it. How could we resist the feeling of malaise and anguish that they evoke for us when ever they come to visit? The suspicion in their eyes reflects the fault in our souls. We know that the evil is here. It is somewhere near us; it is within us. Oh misery, how to deliver ourselves from the thoughts that then op press us and impose such inexpressible torments? For all of our misfortune comes from our feeling of innocence, an accursed innocence that vainly contradicts the suspicion chasing after us. If we had really committed a fault, then we could rest easy; in agreement with this suspicious domestic, we would smile at him in recognition of his insight, and everything would be over. But this consolation is not available to us. We know only too well that our hearts are pure. We can rummage through our lives all we want, inspect every corner of our conscience, all we find are honest actions and virtuous thoughts. So where is the fault? For it does exist; we feel it with no less force than we feel our purity. It is within this world in which we feel so happy. It suddenly stinks up the air. We can no longer breathe. We say to ourselves that we must find it and uncover it. We go to our friends and ask them questions; we beg them to find us guilty. Wasted efforts. They do not 10 3